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Candy asks. “You know, the regular movers … Furniture, flat-screens…”
    â€œI don’t know. The whole day is confusing,” I say.
    â€œThey’re jerks, those movers,” Tom says. One never knows whose side he’s on.
    â€œYou’re doing well, Mom,” Matilde says. She turns to Tom. “Elliot is very far away from water for her.”
    Tom rolls his eyes. Then Jack runs through the empty front hallway in his sneakers and makes an echo.
    â€œTom?” I say. “Could you please go after Jack?”
    Tom runs into the house and disappears, shouting, “Jack? Jack, come back.”
    Candy picks up her bow and starts playing “Fisherman’s Blues” and sings.
    â€œCandy! Please!” I say.
    She stops. “Matilde? Are you ready? You’re next. Kind of like the haunted house at the rides down the Shore. C’mon.”
    Matilde shakes her head and remains outside the door.
    â€œAll right then, I’ll leave this open slightly.” Candy clicks the dead bolt and the heavy glossy wood door is left ajar as she walks into the unknown.
    Matilde sits down next to Claire on the brick steps.
    The rain starts again, a late summer rain, more stickiness. Sometimes I believe that Matilde would like to scream, Shut up, but that has never happened. Claire begins to cry, holding a small sketchbook that I’ve made for her. She opens it up to the last page.
    â€œWho is that man? Who is that lady?” She begins to wind her “blankie” around her right thumb.
    â€œClaire,” Matilde says patiently. “You and your stinky blankie. Maybe in Elliot you can start fresh, put away your blankie on a shelf.…”
    â€œWon’t.” Claire sucks harder on her blankie and looks at more sketches. She finds one with the ocean at sunset. Then she flips the page back to a portrait in charcoal, a portrait of a couple.
    â€œWho is this, Matilde?” she asks.
    â€œLet’s see, Claire. Hold it up so I can see.” Claire pushes the sketchbook to Matilde.
    â€œClaire, that’s Mommy and Daddy in front of the new house. Our house. Mommy drew it for you and Jack last night, remember?”
    Claire traces her right forefinger along the lines of the rendering, over and over in a circle. Then she falls asleep on the doorstep.
    *   *   *
    The first day at the house that we rented without understanding anything about living outside the city, I pay attention to the art movers, who are carrying what’s left of my precious work of art into the basement. The other movers are being bossed around by Candy or left on their own. I care little about the rest of the belongings—clothes, coats, books, coffee cups.
    â€œPlease be careful, Derrick, please make sure nothing more happens. Please beware the boxes. The parts of the frame that you wrapped—can those please be brought to the living room?” I almost beg.
    Candy and Matilde are in charge of the twins, who are sitting on the floor eating Twinkies—my concession for the afternoon.
    â€œMatilde, please begin with the book boxes in the family room,” I say.
    Matilde begins unpacking, almost an automaton.
    â€œCandy? The plasma televisions? Can we get them up and running?” I ask.
    Candy keeps playing any song that comes into her head, including “#41” by Dave Matthews. The youngest, cutest mover holds up the plasma on the wall to the right.
    â€œI dig the music,” he says.
    â€œCandy?” I say with my eye on Derrick and another box of shards from Trespassing: Driftwood .
    Candy shakes her head, her eyes on the youngest, cutest mover. “Not there.”
    â€œHere?” he asks. His muscles ripple.
    â€œNo, not there,” Candy says.
    â€œHow about ‘Two Steppin’ Mind’?” he asks, still holding the television in his arms.
    â€œOver there. The couch will be on this side.” Candy points. She